Deathfire

by Nick Kyme

  After a few seconds, one of the guards gestured for them to proceed and Thiel and Inviglio ushered the casket towards a tall access gate that led into the keep itself. Through the armourglass porthole wrought into the casket, so the prisoner could be seen at all times, Thiel had one last look at Xenut Sul.

  The Word Bearer’s eyes were open and unblinking, almost entranced. A solid metal brace had been inserted into his mouth so he couldn’t speak, and Thiel thought he saw Xenut Sul gently gnawing at it as he tried to form some Colchisian canticle or benediction.

  Thiel didn’t try to mask his disgust. He would have liked nothing more than to take out his anger on this wretch, but a much more invasive punishment was in store for Xenut Sul.

  Titus Prayto awaited the prisoner in one of the Eastern Keep’s dungeons, and Thiel smiled at the thought of his brother taking the Word Bearer apart one mental sliver at a time.

  What he didn’t see after he looked and he and Inviglio passed through the grinding gate into the keep was that Xenut Sul was smiling too.

  Nine

  Absence

  Magna Macragge Civitas, Vault of the Unbound Flame

  ‘What are his plans?’ asked Numeon as the platform to the vault slowly descended.

  It was dark in the close confines of the conveyor with half-­powered lumens situated in the floor the only light source. Numeon supposed it was meant to promote an air of solemnity, but it only stoked the furnace of his anger.

  Zytos and Var’kir, accompanying him on the way to visit their father, felt it too.

  ‘He means to keep us here until the warp storm abates,’ Zytos replied. ‘Only then will he sanction our return to Nocturne.’

  Numeon raised an eyebrow. ‘Sanction? Are we bound by Macragge’s laws then?’

  Sensing the pain in Numeon, Var’kir interjected on Zytos’s behalf. ‘Whilst here on Macragge… yes, we are,’ he said sadly.

  Since his arrival, Numeon had refused all offers of rest and sustenance. He still wore the carapace armour he had aboard the Defiance of Calth, even though Zytos had said a suit of legionary battleplate had been reforged for him.

  Later perhaps, but Numeon had no desire to delay. He wanted to… needed to see with his own eyes what Thiel had told him, and what his brothers’ demeanour suggested.

  That Vulkan was dead.

  ‘You are mistaken, brother,’ said Numeon, his eyes hard and fixed ahead to the doors that would soon admit him to the vaults. ‘No son of Nocturne is bound by the will of another primarch. We answer to Lord Vulkan, and him alone.’

  ‘Numeon–’ Zytos began, but Var’kir held up a hand to quieten him.

  Instead, the Chaplain gently laid his hand on Numeon’s shoulder.

  ‘Do not counsel me,’ Numeon warned, ‘unless it is to advise how and when we can escort our father from this cold and wretched place.’

  Var’kir let his hand fall and said nothing.

  Silence descended like a hammer, its resonance deafening.

  Mercifully for Zytos and Var’kir, the platform came to a shuddering halt and the doors to the vault opened a few moments later.

  Numeon stepped out. He did so boldly, as dauntless as a rising storm, but there was a tremor in his body that belied his ostensible purpose.

  To be confronted with the departed, those you have known and loved in life, is to be reminded of your own mortality. Lies and half-truths are stripped away in a moment of acceptance, anger bled dry before a glimpse of one’s own frailty and the urge to arrest the great entropy slowly eroding one and all. To look upon the dead is to see an echo of what once was, a cruel and hollow shell as grey as dust. In the end that is the fate of every dead thing.

  For Numeon the barb was more savage still because it served as a reminder of his most abject failure, for was it not his appointed task to protect his lord?

  Darkness flooded the vault, as deep and black as an ocean trench. Fathomless, yet dredged of all hope, it lapped against the smooth walls and gathered oppressively around a beleaguered memorial flame. An invidious chill rested on the stale air like a layer of sharp frost in winter. Here, things came to wither and atrophy. They did not burn brightly in the fire of the mountain, a last flame to kindle another into a vital spark.

  ‘You let them keep him in this place?’ There was a snarl in Numeon’s voice that went beyond accusation.

  Zytos’s pained expression almost gave way to rebuke before he caught sight of Var’kir. The Chaplain slowly shook his head so Zytos lowered his in mourning and hurtful frustration.

  They both walked a few paces behind Numeon, content to let him lead.

  It wasn’t far to the golden casket where the Lord of Drakes lay in state, and as they closed, Var’kir signalled silently for Zytos to slow so that Numeon be afforded some small measure of solitude when he faced the irrefutable truth that Vulkan, their father, was dead.

  Numeon slowed too, though he did it subconsciously, the gallows walk of a condemned man come to face his punishment.

  For the longest time, he had believed Vulkan lived. He had known it in his every fibre, down to the deepest instinct in his gut. As he lay dying on the black lightning fields of Traoris, his faith in Vulkan had sustained him. As the knives of Xenut Sul had carved his body, it was this mantra that made him endure.

  ‘Vulkan lives…’

  Unaware he had muttered the words aloud, Numeon grasped the sigil of his father tightly in another subconscious gesture as he approached the casket.

  Whether it was the cold and darkness of the vault or brutal exhaustion, he no longer appeared convinced of his own rhetoric as he reached to touch the edge of Vulkan’s gilded casket with a trembling hand.

  ‘Vulkan lives,’ Numeon uttered, lower than a whisper this time so only he could hear it as he dared to look upon his father lying in this tomb…

  …then turned, his face contorted with anger.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked Numeon. ‘Speak, now!’

  Var’kir had expected grief, denial, even sorrowful anger, but not like this. He looked at Zytos then back to Numeon.

  ‘Brother, I don’t…’ he began, stepping forwards. Zytos was right by his side as Var’kir approached Numeon.

  ‘Look upon the casket, Var’kir,’ Numeon raged, slamming his fist against the gilded metal. ‘Tell me if your eyes see the same as mine do.’

  Both Var’kir and Zytos rushed to the side of the casket at the same time.

  Zytos gasped and fell to his knees, one hand against the casket to steady himself.

  Eyes wide, Var’kir simply shook his head.

  Numeon was incensed. ‘Tell me,’ he repeated to them both, ‘where is our father?’

  ‘He was here, Numeon,’ replied Var’kir, casting his gaze about the room for some sign of what could have happened. ‘I swear on my blood.’

  Numeon had drawn his sword.

  Zytos looked horrified, his mouth agape but shock turning to anger.

  ‘There will be retribution for this.’

  ‘Answer me, damn you!’ Numeon grabbed a weighty chain strung around the Chaplain’s neck. Var’kir was too shocked to resist, his eyes back on the casket.

  ‘I don’t know, brother,’ he gasped, shaking his head in rising panic. ‘I don’t know.’

  Behind the glass of the casket, which was sealed and unmolested, was an ashen void.

  The casket was empty. Vulkan was gone.

  The mood in the throne room was tense as an angry and impassioned delegation marched through its doors.

  The propaganda and ceremony of the new emperor’s coronation in Martial Square had been abandoned in favour of the much more austere surroundings of the Convincus Cubicularum. One of many audience halls in the Fortress of Hera, its name meant ‘Chamber of Conquerors’, an appellation that appeared to make its current incumbent ill at ease.


  It was Sanguinius, not Guilliman, who ruled as regent in the swiftly dubbed Imperium Secundus. Ostensibly, it was a mantle the Blood Angels primarch wore with regal dignity, but the truth was somewhat different.

  Unlike in Martial Square, there was no Propylae Titanicus to overshadow and invest the scene with a gravitas it perhaps did not deserve. Still, there were reminders of Imperial prowess that, while they could not eclipse the grandeur of the Titan’s Gate, still provided a prideful context.

  The banners of three Legions draped its marble columns, tapestries of their victories hung in the gaping alcoves between them, a triptych of martial wisdom, stoic order and angelic symbolism. These tenets were the foundation upon which Imperium Secundus was built, a second front to hold back the rising darkness and restore a measure of hope to a galaxy sorely in need of a saviour.

  The light from lume-globes set into the walls failed to reach all the way to the back of the room where the banners hung, their rough fabrics cast in a shadowy glow that gave them imagined animation.

  Present in the chamber was the Master of Ultramar, sitting on a marble throne to Emperor Sanguinius’s right. Both of the primarchs wore their armour. Though Konrad Curze had not been seen in months, he continued to elude evasion. That the self-titled ‘Night Haunter’ had yet to strike against any of them suggested a plan was being conceived… or perhaps not at all. Konrad’s murderous urges made him hard to predict. At the least, a stately suit of cobalt-blue war-plate would stand between Guilliman and the weapons of his enemies. It was prudent. Practical.

  Sanguinius was less suspicious, and wore his gilded battleplate to signify his position as regent. His throne was more ostentatious than Guilliman’s, but not by his own bidding. Adorned with the blood-drop sigil of his Legion, his armour made a fitting alliance with the throne, as did his angelic wings, though they remained furled during the council.

  At Sanguinius’s left, slightly removed from the other members of the lordly triumvirate, was the darker, more capricious figure of the Lion.

  Ever on a war footing, Lion El’Jonson was clad in the deep black of the Dark Angels, a long ivory-coloured cloak slung over one shoulder.

  None wore their helms, though the Lion kept his by his side next to a sheathed sword.

  The lords of Imperium Secundus held court over a chosen gathering.

  Word had reached the august lords that Vulkan was no longer cloistered within his funerary casket, that a cadre of Salamanders had come to their mourning vigil and found it empty of his body.

  Urgent enquires were made, accusations of negligence and deceit, grief-driven as they were, rebuffed until one conclusion remained.

  ‘Vulkan lives,’ declared Numeon, wilfully ignoring the power of the primarchs in his midst. Though the Salamander looked to Sanguinius, it was Guilliman who responded.

  ‘I saw my brother’s cold body with my own eyes, Numeon. He is dead.’

  Guilliman, Sanguinius and the Lion hold court in the Chamber of Conquerors

  ‘Then how, my lord, do you explain the fact he no longer lies in state?’ asked Var’kir.

  ‘Our father walks,’ Numeon was adamant, ‘and must be found.’

  ‘I don’t disagree,’ said Guilliman, ‘but do not cling to this hope–’

  ‘Hope?’ asked Numeon, despairingly, daring the primarch’s anger. ‘What is this place, if not founded on that very principle?’

  A tremor along Guilliman’s noble jawline betrayed his annoyance at being spoken to thusly, but he kept his ire under close guard, nodding to concede the point.

  ‘Yours is false, driven by an understandable but weary desire to refute the truth of your eyes.’

  Seeing Numeon’s rising anger, Var’kir went to intercede but was rebutted by the Pyre captain, whose focus swiftly returned to the primarch of the Ultramarines.

  ‘My eyes see an empty tomb – your brother, my father, having left his mortal repose. I demand he be found with all haste.’

  ‘A search is already under way throughout the Civitas conducted by my most trusted warriors, the Invictus Guard.’

  Numeon was not placated. ‘By those who lost him in the first place.’

  Now Guilliman scowled, and his gauntleted fists clenched. He glanced at the Lion, who watched the exchange keenly but kept to the shadows to mask his emotions.

  An inquest into Guilliman’s leadership had begun, at first without him realising, but it wasn’t his role to lead. They had elected another, he and his brothers.

  Marshalling his anger, hiding it in a manner accustomed to an arch statesman, Guilliman looked to Sanguinius. Their angelic emperor appeared uncomfortable despite his numinous poise and undeniable benevolence of countenance.

  ‘Alive or dead,’ uttered Sanguinius, his voice rich and melodic, ‘I swear to you we will find Vulkan. Your father will be returned and, if necessary, reparation made for this negligence.’

  Numeon’s fire ebbed. Standing before the angelic lord, he relented.

  ‘Lord Sanguinius,’ he said more calmly, but still with the indignation of the betrayed, ‘I ask that my brothers and I be allowed to conduct this search.’

  Guilliman was about to interject when Sanguinius inclined his head to signal accession.

  Numeon was not finished.

  ‘And if my father yet lives, what punishment will there be for those who claimed otherwise?’

  Guilliman’s cheekbones tensed at the ease with which his brother had defused the situation, and how the Salamander’s ire was being directed solely at him, a fact that did not go unnoticed.

  Though none would see it, or rather see it and believe it, a faint smile played about the Lion’s lips as he looked on.

  Through determination and willpower, Guilliman had sought to craft an empire. He did not desire the throne – to do so would smack of vainglory and selfishness – but he had envisaged being able to maintain order in his own house. Unafraid of the consequences, Numeon exposed the lie of that and had found support in the nascent regent of Imperium Secundus.

  A tempest raged in the Blood Angel’s eyes. The firelight caught in the sclera, turning it incarnadine. Ferocity and sadness marred his beauteous voice. All who heard it saw not a winged, celestial being before them but instead a wrathful avenger clad in red.

  ‘I promise, if you have been deceived and Vulkan does indeed still draw breath,’ Sanguinius declared, ‘recompense will be made.’

  Numeon nodded, seemingly satisfied before saying, ‘And when he is returned to us, we are leaving Macragge.’

  ‘Leaving?’ asked the Lion with curious amusement. ‘Where is it you think you will go?’

  Ten

  No stone unturned

  Magna Macragge Civitas, Vault of the Unbound Flame

  It began in the Castrum and left no chamber or alcove undisturbed as the search for Vulkan, alive or dead, reached as far as the Aegis Wall. No sign could be found and even the gilded mausoleum itself was scryed psychically by Titus Prayto to hunt for any spoor that might reveal how the deathly Lord of Drakes had managed such dramatic egress.

  The skies were locked down so tight that removal of the primarch’s body via shuttle was quickly discounted. But no record existed of the dead primarch having been taken from his sepulchral slumber and, in spite of Numeon’s protestations, Guilliman sent out scores of legionaries and serfs to augment the search.

  Beyond the Castrum’s borders, a sizeable region in itself, the teeming millions of Magna Macragge Civitas awaited. Even during curfew, its roads and districts were thronged with those who had business out after dark. Labourers with petitions to operate within strict reconstruction perimeters; overseers cataloguing and domiciling fringe world refugees; troopers, both transhuman and human, returning from rotation were all at large in a dense, populous city.

  From the Servian Wall to the Eastern Curtain and the coastal fringes of
the Gulf of Lycum, a vast sprawl of land stretched in three cardinal directions. Time of discovery versus the last confirmed sighting of the primarch in state suggested some of these avenues of enquiry might not be necessary, but the longer it took to find him, the farther away Vulkan could potentially be taken. Therefore the possibility remained of an all-encompassing search of the entire Civitas.

  Had his body been removed and hidden for some reason, it was unlikely discovery would be expedient. A rationale for perpetrating such a heinous act was harder still to come by.

  Theories that Curze had infiltrated the Castrum and his brother’s resting place in order to defile it were swiftly rebuffed. Yet, there remained no answer as to how Vulkan’s cold corpse could be absent after so long in state. Added to the fact that the casket in which he had lain was still sealed, and any explanation became inexplicable.

  It bothered one Salamander more than the others.

  Phaestus Var’kir had been to the memorial vault every day since Vulkan had been interred. He did so to minister to those who knelt in vigil or who had unanswered questions.

  Even in light of recent events, he saw no reason to break with that routine.

  His latest visit was not about solemn observance, though. Var’kir was trying to fathom the impossible.

  The Salamander was not alone in that.

  ‘What are you hoping to find?’ asked a faintly resonant voice from the shadows.

  Var’kir looked up from where he was kneeling, his face half lit by the still burning memorial flame.

  ‘You are Titus Prayto,’ Var’kir replied, prompting a short and shallow bow from the Ultramarine.

  The Salamander rose to his feet. ‘Not evidence, I am sure there is none of that.’

  His psychic exertions still fading, Prayto nodded.

  ‘I caught the faintest residual trace of the warp, but a Librarian is ever open to such things,’ he said. ‘I cannot be sure what it means, if it means anything at all.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So, why are you here and not out scouring the Civitas?’